


Father's Favorite

by Dach



Series: Fëanorian Week 2k17 [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Favoritism, Forge work, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10431141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Forging was always a time for thought and speculation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Hey, brother. Dude. Manwe. Screw you and your angsty Silm fics. This fic was supposed to be happy. And then I read your Curufin fic. And now my fic is a little sad. This is all your fault.

The hammer was raised once more and the iron glinted dully in the forge-light before it dropped with a resonating ‘CLANG!’ The loud noise did nothing to jar Curufin, who had long since adjusted to the sounds of a busy forge. He wiped his nose with the back of a gloved hand and attempted to rub a smudge of what he knew to be soot off of his pale cheek. After a good couple moments of rubbing his jaw red, he decided that his face would probably never truly be clean of soot anyways and stopped, before raising the hammer again. It hit the glowing sword on the anvil with another ‘CLANG!’ and several white sparks shot away from the brown-haired elf’s metalwork, a couple landing on his leather apron and dimming.

Curufin paused in his work, setting the hammer aside and dunking the slowly-forming sword in a bucket of cold water. Steam hissed before the glowing sword adopted a less luminescent gray, and Curufin tucked the wisps of hair he hadn’t managed to capture in his ponytail behind his ear. When at last he deemed the sword to be cooled sufficiently, the tall elf lifted the sword from the now warm water to glance over the edges. Lost in thought though he may have been, the strokes of the hammer had been evenly distributed, and so the sword’s edge was even. 

Someone hummed approvingly from behind him and Curufin whirled around, automatically swinging the half-formed weapon. The still-hot metal collided with his father’s blade and Curufin’s blade was knocked out of his hand and across the floor. They stood in silence for a few moments before Fëanor motioned towards the blunted blade with a small frown and Curufin bowed his head, retrieving it. Without a word, he handed it to his father.

“Better,” Fëanor said, with a sense of pride. The tone in which he spoke was reserved for Curufin. Curufin thanked his father quietly and turned back to the anvil, moving to put away his hammer. “Wait,” Fëanor instructed, handing the piece of metal back to his son. “Finish it. Perhaps it might show your brothers how better to go about their work.” Though the tone spoken in was light, the contempt that bled through his words was nearly tangible, and Fëanor smirked as if what he said was some kind of inside joke only registered by those with superior intellect. Curufin nodded and bit back words of protest, forcing a small smile to his own face. Fëanor left and his son turned back to the forge.

Curufin scowled and pushed the sword back into the heat of glowing coals, squinting in face of the heat and brightness. The air above the coals seemed to physically quiver, almost like the forge itself was naught but a mirage. For several minutes, the metal heated despite the frowns and glares the Curufin directed at it. When at last the Fëanorian deemed the metal suitable for another round of hammering, his hammer had somehow gone missing. Curufin swore, but found it behind a jar of leather studs soon enough.

The sword was carelessly placed back onto the anvil and Curufin surveyed it for a few moments. His father had been right. The sword, even at this stage in its production, was better than any weapon that his siblings had forged in the past year. And if his father had been serious in his joking taunts, it would soon be the subject of their envy, hate, and disdain; much like himself. At last, the building anger became too much and Curufin brought his hammer down on the glowing sword with a yell of anger.

It was clear at once that he had used too much force; a shower of sparks skittered away from the metal, and it bent noticeably. Curufin dropped his hammer with a groan and tossed the sword into the bucket of water. Steam spiraled into the air and several drops of warm water landed on his skin.

Curufin heaved his hammer at the wall and ignored the dull clang that it made as he sank to his knees. The floor was cold underneath this hands.

Slowly, he calmed. After a while, Curufin retrieved the sword and hammer. The sword went into the hot coals to be later mended, and his hammer was put back in its place behind the jar of leather studs.

The metal began to glow again, and Curufin sat down on the bench to watch the forge do its work. Over time, the heat on his face became nearly unbearable, but he stubbornly refused to move. He settled in to wait, hoping that the bend was fixable. Fëanor would be disappointed if it wasn’t.

Curufin was his father’s favorite, and no matter how much he despised the position in his father’s mind, he had become dependent upon it.


End file.
